


Simmer

by c0dy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c0dy/pseuds/c0dy
Summary: Arthur tries his best to be reclusive nowadays, but dark forces are brewing across Europe, and soon he'll find himself in the midst of another power struggle.Harry just wants one normal school year.[[ Tags will be updated as chapters are released! ]]
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Simmer

The mist rolled in over the sheep-spotted hills of North Yorkshire that morning. It had been a cool evening, and as the sun began to dimly light up the land the moss-covered walls of the quaint Northern farmhouse shone damp with dew. Up in the master bedroom, Arthur began to stir as the faint light of day slipped through the old wool curtains. 

The old collie dog laying on the faded rug began to wag his tail curiously, stretching out its front paws, and whining slightly as he sensed his companion coming to his senses. With a wide yawn, and a stretch of his arms that popped his shoulders, and got the blood circulating through ancient bones, the nation blearily blinked himself awake, and sat up. 

“Woah there!” Arthur exclaimed, shaking his head in amusement as the dog jumped up onto the paisley covers, barking and licking at his freckled face. Deft fingers shook through the thick fur at the collie’s neck, and he graciously kissed the top of his partner’s head. 

“Gosh, c’mon. It’s time to get up,” Arthur chuckled, swiping tartan clad legs from under the thick duvet. Bare feet touched the worn rug on his bedroom floor, and as he eased himself into a standing position, he made sure to contort his torso left to right, in order to pop his aching back. The pup danced around his nation’s ankles as the weary blond exited his bedroom, making his way across old floorboards to head downstairs. The door to the master room opened onto a long, dark hallway. With three doors to the right, one at the end, and two on the left hand side - one adjacent to the master door, and another adjacent to the far door at the end of the hallway. The three doors on the right faced an old staircase, wooden steps bowing slightly from decades of constant usage, with cherry oak handrails, and fencing across the left of the hallway. Despite the early hour, a dim yellow light already cast its glow across the reception area, and the sound of a boiling kettle whistled throughout the house. The smell of bacon permeated through the air, and the collie bounded downstairs ahead of the nation at first whiff. Arthur himself followed slowly, left hand on the rail as he descended. The stairs ended directly facing the front door, a coat stand to the left hand side displaying worn woollen jackets and faded pullovers. Dirt (new and old) was strewn across the entryway, with wellies and boots stacked haphazardly on a shoe rack to the right. To Arthur’s left, there was a wide archway that opened up to a living room. There was an unfinished game of Monopoly left on the coffee table, surrounded by beat-up cushioned sofas, with a rocking chair at peak vantage point in the far right corner. The fireplace was stuffed with dead embers, likely in need of a clean. A wicker basket full of old papers and cut logs sat nearby. To the right of the room, a large window overlooking the front of the house allowed a good amount of light to sweep into the house, and to the left, three grand bookcases stuffed to the brim, spines new and old illuminated by the dawning sun. 

“Are you going to take all day? I’ve been nice enough to make you this breakfast, so you better come sit your arse down and appreciate it!” Came a rough voice from the kitchen, causing Arthur to whip his head right over his shoulder and stare into the other room. His brother, Alasdair, stood facing away from him by the aga - spatula in one hand and cast iron pan in the other. He was serving up a Full English onto three plates on the side, a well-worn apron covering his pyjamas, and well-loved slippers protecting his feet from the chilled flagstone. 

“Sorry, Al,” Arthur replied, dutifully making his way into the kitchen and finding a seat by the radiator, which was just beginning to warm up. The redhead shook his head fondly, turning to face his sibling and passing along a plate and a cup of coffee.

“Badger was very excited this morning,” he remarked, jerking his head to indicate the border collie stood by the fire, eagerly chewing on a bowl of chopped sausage. Arthur shrugged and nodded, reaching for the butter dish to prepare his toast. 

“He was so lively when I woke up, it might be worth taking him out for a run later,” he said, spreading his knife across the wholewheat bread, “Maybe down to the beach, it’s been awhile since I had a look. Might be in need of a tidy.”

Alasdair hummed in agreement, finishing up his plating and setting the other two plates down on the table, and finding a seat himself, “Pádraig will be in soon, he just went to have a check on the sheep early this morning. Said he was worried about foxes or something.”

Arthur muddied his expression, clearly deep in fault as he reached for the pepper, “Foxes? Up here? I haven’t seen any around the fields for quite some time now.”

His brother shrugged, shovelling a large forkful of carbs into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully, “You know how he gets, he’s a worryful lad. Want me to pop the radio on?”

Arthur nodded absentmindedly, chewing through a particularly tough piece of bacon as he pondered the thought. As Alasdair rose to mess with the dials, Pádraig pushed open the rickety outside door to the far right of the kitchen, nodding to his brothers and he knocked the mud off the treads of his boots.

“Mornin’ lads,” he greeted, slipping off beaten green boots and slamming the old door behind him.

“God, is there a need for that?” Arthur groaned, jumping at the sound, “I swear it’s too early for that kind of force.”

“Nah, you’re just a baby,” the Irishman laughed, punching his older brother’s shoulder as he moved around to the table’s third chair, “thanks for the brekkie, Al.”

“You’re welcome,” the Scot called over his shoulder, adjusting the dial to a local frequency and turning down the volume as some kind of folk music began blasting through the speakers, “Christ alive, who used this last?”

Neither of the brothers replied, both digging into their breakfasts and ignoring the grumblings of their sibling, who rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the table.

“Sheep alright?” Arthur asked, stabbing at his mushrooms. 

“Yeah, they’re fine,” Pádraig replied, swallowing a mouthful of black pudding, “don’t know why I was so bothered this morning. Just for sure felt like something was wrong.”

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?” Alasdair replied.

As the three continued to work through their breakfasts, Badger suddenly perked his head up and began barking at the window. All heads snapped to the glass pane above the sink, where an owl was tapping its beak quite furiously. 

“Ah, shite, the post,” Alasdair exclaimed, quickly wiping his mouth and rising to collect it. The bird hopped onto the counter as the window swung open, and the Scotsman chucked a pile of parchment letters at the two on the table, keeping the Daily Prophet for himself. 

“Oh, save us the crossword, will you?” Pádraig remarked, met with a middle finger from his elder. Arthur had abandoned his food by now, flipping through the letters and groaning to himself.

“Who the fuck is billing me for Witch Weekly? I swear if Emma has gotten hooked on that shit again,” he tutted, chucking the bill into a wicker basket next to the kitchen fireplace.

“Oh, what’s that?” Alasdair asked, slipping out a wax sealed letter from the bottom of his brother’s pile, “Looks like it’s from Hogwarts.”

“God, what does that man want this time?” Arthur sighed, snatching the envelope from the hands of the Scotsman and ripping it open. 

_Arthur,_

_I hope I find you well. I’m aware you may be loathe to hear from me, but I’m afraid I am in dire need of assistance._

_As you must be aware, Harry Potter has started his education at our school, and already has shown himself to be quite the handful. After only two years, he has already shown himself to be quite the handful. As such, I write to you now asking for a grand favour._

_I would like to offer you a teaching position at Hogwarts school, as History of Magic professor. Professor Binns it seems has finally decided to “move on”, as it were, from his post, and I can personally think of nobody more qualified than yourself. I am fully aware of how tall of an order this may be, however - as you well know - the security of the Wizarding World rests on Harry’s shoulders, and I can think of no one else more qualified, nor more trustworthy than yourself._

_I encourage you to consider my offer carefully._

_Your friend,_

_Professor Dumbledore_

_Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

“Christ alive,” the Briton sighed, dropping the letter down on his plate and watching the grease seep through the parchment, “I’m telling you, that old man wants me dead.”

* * *

Many miles away, down the south of the country, Harry Potter was eating breakfast too. 

Sat sandwiched between his uncle, Vernon, and his cousin, Dudley, at the breakfast table, he helped himself to a piece of toast. On the TV, a news reporter was talking in heavy tones about an escaped convict. 

“...the public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.”

Harry stared intently at the television screen, taking in the man’s face. Perhaps if he cleaned up a little he could be handsome, but as it were he was gaunt, with long, stringy dark hair and hollow, angry eyes. It was enough to make him shudder, and he decided to just focus on his toast. 

Beside him, his Uncle Vernon scoffed at the report, “Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!”

With the second remark, Harry ducked his head down as he felt Vernon’s intense gaze swivel to him. His uncle had never been a fan of his untidy hairstyle. Meekly, he took a bite of his breakfast and avoided the man’s scrutiny. Soon, the attention subsided, and Vernon went back to griping. 

“When will they learn!” he said, slamming his purple fist on the table, “I tell you, Petunia, hanging’s the only way to deal with these people.”

“Very true,” Harry’s aunt simpered, her eagle eyes staring out onto the street for any side of haggard convicts. 

Vernon harrumphed, and took the last bite of his breakfast, before glancing at his watch and grimacing, “Well, I better be off soon. Marge’s train will be here soon enough.”

Harry nearly choked on his toast, and without thinking exclaimed, “Aunt Marge? She’s not coming here, is she?”

Vernon’s grey, watery eyes fell on his nephew, set in an expression of deep abhorrence, “Yes, she’ll be here for a week,” he snarled, “and whilst we’re on the subject, I need to get a few things straight with you.”

Harry gulped, setting down the remainder of his toast, suddenly at a loss of appetite. He had a grim feeling that he wasn’t going to enjoy hearing what was coming next. Behind him, he heard a quiet chuckle, and fought the urge to turn and glare at his cousin. 

“Firstly,” Harry’s uncle growled, “you’ll keep a civil tone when speaking to Marge. No talking back, no snarky comments, nothing. Understood?”

Harry bit back a retort and just slowly nodded his head, staring at the bridge of Vernon’s nose in order to avoid the man’s ruthless, searching gaze.

“Secondly, she knows nothing of your...abnormality, so we’ve told her you attend St. Brutus’ Secure Centre of Incurably Criminal Boys.”

“What?” Harry snapped, “Is that even a real school?”

“Silence!” roared his uncle, and Harry immediately bit back the fire and sat back in his chair. Aunt Petunia tutted overtly, and took away the other half of his toast to throw in the bin. Dudley seemed to giggle.

Vernon coughed, and continued his speech, “You’ll stick to that story, Potter, or it’ll be Hell for you.”

Harry nodded solemnly, and looked away to the television. He was white-faced, and inwardly furious. Aunt Marge delighted in making him miserable, and he could hardly trust any of his family members to shelter him from her. He half-registered Vernon getting up to leave, and Petunia ushering Dudley upstairs to prepare for Marge’s arrival, lost in his thoughts. He shook his head and groaned, elbows on the table and rubbing his face in frustration. Maybe if he was lucky, some convict would come running down his street and gun him down one of these days. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with a family like this. 

With a deep sigh, Harry stood and ambled up the stairs to his bedroom. Flopping onto the bed, face in his pillow, he thought the urge to groan, instead sitting upright to stare gloomily at Hedwig in her cage. She had awoken at the sound of him returning to his room, and gave a glum hoot and ruffled her feathers at his expression.

“You’re going to have to clear off for a bit,” Harry sighed, reaching to his bedside drawer for some parchment, ink, and a quill, “There’s no way I’m letting you hang around Aunt Marge.”

She hooted softly again, sticking out her leg for the completed note and letting Harry carry her to the window for a send-off. With an affectionate nibble to his ear, she soon set off, leaving Harry truly alone once more at Privet Drive. 

“Soon,” he sighed to himself, “summer doesn't last forever."

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, welcome to this new project :') I haven't read or written any fanfic (or anything non-fiction for that matter) in well over a year so please go easy on me - I am a bit rusty!


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